


If I Had a Heart

by festivalofpudding (berreh)



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Enemies to Lovers, Germany, M/M, Opposites Attract, Stranded, historically accurate man-bun, long hair don't care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9923156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berreh/pseuds/festivalofpudding
Summary: If I didn't get a history degree to write Ancient Rome AUs, then why else did I get one??





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Historical Background](https://festival-of-pudding.tumblr.com/post/160091369879/ihh-historical-background) | [Tumblr Tag](https://festival-of-pudding.tumblr.com/tagged/if-i-had-a-heart)

“I’ve had just about all of this godsforsaken place as I can stand.”

The innkeeper grinned as he pushed forward another cup. “My town has lost its charms for you, eh, Lin?”

Caius Cornelius Lacertus, known as “Lin” to the locals around these parts, downed the cup’s contents in a single swig. The wine was tepid and gritty, not nearly watered enough, but at this point that was actually preferable ― after two cups of this, he just might be able to get some sleep today. Forcing down the dregs, he flashed a smile.

“Forgive me, my friend, I was thinking aloud. I’ve just been away from home too long, that’s all, and now that I’m finally going back I realize it. I am a Roman. I belong in Rome.”

“Some say all Romans belong in Rome,” replied the innkeeper dryly.

“But not you ― without me you’d have nothing to sell in this hovel but half-gone fish and stale Cimbrian mead.”

The innkeeper laughed as he dropped Lin’s coins into his coffer. The wooden box was filled with an assortment of coins, trinkets, and bits of jewelry, the multicultural revenue of a busy port town. “That’s true enough. I’ll say this for you Romans, you have a knack for good trade. Even if you do dress like women.”

“I’m going to miss you too.” Lin pushed back the empty cup and stood. “Well, I’d better get moving if I want to cover any ground today. I’ll see you the next time I’m in Frisia, eh?”

“Don’t bother unless you bring me that pepper you promised me.”

“In a Syrian glass jar, just for you.” He leaned over the counter to slap one burly shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Algothr.”

“You too, Lin. May Wothan ride beside you.”

“Thank you. Gods keep you, my friend.”

Outside the morning mist was swiftly clearing as dawn brightened into a chilly spring day. A hired carriage waited in the narrow street, its driver stretched out snoring across the bench while his horse munched a stray clump of weeds. Lin banged a fist against the wagon’s side and the driver snorted awake with an oath.

“Well, my good man,” Lin said brightly. “Shall we?”

The driver muttered something and swiveled into a mostly vertical position.

A spotty face popped up from behind the loaded baggage, and a gangly teenage boy in a slave’s tunic climbed down and hurried over, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Ready to go?” said Lin.

“Ready when you are, sir. But I still think―”

“We’re not going by boat, Sulla, so stop bringing it up.”

“But it’s safer―”

“Not for my stomach. I spent the whole trip up here offering the contents of my belly to the sea. I mean to spend the trip back sleeping. Now fetch my satchel so we can get going.”

The boy frowned, but he fetched the satchel and followed Lin into the carriage without further comment. The driver called to his horse, and the cart jerked and rolled out on its wobbly way. As soon as they passed through the village gate and turned onto the trade road headed south, Lin drew the curtain and curled up on the seat with his favorite pillow, closing his eyes to daydream his way into a morning nap.

Sulla had a point ― now that winter was finally over, the tribes would be itching to get back to their favorite pastime of killing each other. But that was business for soldiers, not civilians, and he’d never had any trouble traveling through Germania. No, this was far safer than a sea voyage: a few days in a hired carriage, a nice barge ride down the Rhine, and they’d be back in Roman territory in no time. Much faster than a slog around Hispania on a crowded, smelly ship, and far easier on the belly.

Until this morning he hadn’t truly realized just how anxious he was to get home. He didn’t dislike the north, to be honest; he had made his fortune here, and if the wine wasn’t easy on the stomach, at least the women were easy on the eyes. Provided you had a good place to shelter through the ghastly winters, Germania could actually be quite nice. But this trip had been the longest yet, stretched over an unusually rainy and gray winter. As soon as he hired the driver to take him to Mogontiacum he’d been ambushed by homesickness, and now his yearning for home seemed to grow by the hour. He was tired of mud and rain clouds and people who smelled like pickled fish and thought beer was a suitable beverage for human consumption. He wanted sunlight, linen sheets, good wine, and olive oil that didn’t taste like it had been stored in a goat’s bladder.

He stifled a burp, tasting stale Frisian wine, and turned over to get more comfortable. His hand brushed against his hair and he sighed; the first thing he would do when he got to civilization was get a decent haircut. It was getting so thick on top, he’d soon have to start braiding it like a Gaul to keep it out of his face. The thought made him smile, and he curled in around his pillow and fell asleep dreaming of having his hair braided by Gaulish slaves.

* * *

“Did you get enough to eat, sir?”

“Yes, Sulla, plenty. You did well with the bacon. Go ahead and have the rest for yourself.”

Sulla grinned at him in gratitude and heaped his wooden plate with the leftover bacon. Lin disposed of his cheese rind and brushed the crumbs from his own plate, then opened his satchel and took out a small enameled box. Inside it were his silver toothpick set, a linen tooth cloth, and a ceramic bottle of mouthwash. He moved closer to the fire and bared his teeth, peering at his reflection in the box’s mirrored lid to check for bits of dried olive.

The carriage driver chuckled over his bottle of unknown liquor. “You Romans. So much fuss.”

“Is it fuss to want to keep one’s teeth from falling out?”

“Teeth are teeth. Some fall out, some stay in.” He smiled to reveal his remaining few and laughed as Lin suppressed a shudder. “Frisians do not care.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. I sold plenty of these sets in your town. Being clean is not exclusive to Romans.”

“Ha! Clean. Clean is bath. Clean is wash hair. Roman clean is hairless like child and smelling like woman.”

Sulla giggled over his bacon. Lin raised an eyebrow at him, but he was smiling too.

“You will notice I am neither. There aren’t many hair-pluckers in Germania, let alone unguent-makers. Perhaps that should be my next business venture ― Frisian body waxing.”

The driver laughed loudly and got up to take a piss. From a nearby tree he called, “Moon is high tonight. We drive on, or we sleep?”

“Does the horse need rest?”

“Horse is good. I get new one tomorrow.”

“Let’s ride on, then, if you don’t mind, at least until you need to sleep.” Eyeing Sulla, he added, “My slave here is afraid of being robbed in the dark by bandits.”

“No robbers here,” the driver said. “No one to rob. Only thing out here is tr―”

His word cut off in a choked gasp. He stumbled forward, into the firelight, and clutched at an arrow jutting from his neck. He groped at it, gurgling once, and fell face-first dead upon the ground.

Sulla flailed back in horror as Lin leaped to his feet. Chaos erupted.

Whooping, screaming, eerie wails, pounding feet, scores of men emerging from the darkness from all sides ― tall, long-haired, naked to the waist, clutching daggers and axes on wooden handles or wielding great bows at a full run. Arrows whirred through the clearing, embedding themselves in trees, the wagon, the earth, and flesh. Men screamed and fell, and others leaped over them to rush on. They paid no heed to the carriage or its occupants, but charged full speed straight at each other. Blades met flesh with sprays of hot blood amid roars of fury and death.

Lin crouched with Sulla behind a carriage wheel. The horse was tied to a tree nearby ― if somehow he could catch it before it got loose and bolted, they might have a chance. He tried to force himself to move from his hiding place, but his muscles refused to respond. Terror squeezed his lungs as he struggled to breathe.

_Move, you weak fool. Move or die. Move!_

He crept from behind the wagon and seized the lead rope. The horse reared and whinnied, nearly jerking him off his feet, and his hands shook so badly he could barely untie the knot. All around him were screams and cries, clashing blades, falling bodies, dying groans.

 _Mercury, help me_ , Lin prayed. _Please, Swift One, help me ― save us now and I will give you my greatest treasure. I swear it._

He jerked and pulled until the knot finally came loose and the reins dropped into his hands. He motioned to Sulla and reached out to the terrified horse, trying to soothe it enough to grab hold of its bridle. 

Something smashed into the side of his head, and he fell to the ground as the world went dim. He saw a blurry shape approaching through darkness and flame, and then everything went silent and black.

* * *

He awoke to pain. Grinding agony pounded in his head, ringing in his ears and blurring his vision. Nausea rolled over him in thick waves, and he turned his head and retched into the dirt. Something warm and sticky ran down his face. He opened his eyes and saw red blood dripping onto the trampled ground. Coughing weakly, he struggled to rise, but his limbs would not cooperate and he could not tell which way was up.

“Don’t.”

The voice came from above him. Lin rolled to his back and squinted, but his vision was too blurry to make out more than a pale shape looming over him. The shape reached for him and he flinched, but then something wonderfully cool and soft pressed against his head. He tried to speak, but little came out beyond a choked groan.

“Lie still. If I don’t stop this blood you’ll be dead soon. Talk to your gods, not me.”

The voice was accented, but not any accent he recognized. He couldn’t think beyond the pain in his head and the numbness slowly creeping over his body. This was death, he knew it now. Death leaned over him: the Guide, the Swift One, come to take him across the Styx to the land of the shades. Lin could even see the wings atop his golden cap. He tried to reach up to touch one, but darkness came upon him before he could move.

* * *

The next time he opened his eyes, sunlight poured into them. He turned his head from the glare and immediately regretted the movement. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and he would have vomited if anything still remained in his belly. Instead he lay there, shivering in the cold, and closed his eyes until the dizziness eased. He was alive, at least ― surely he had done nothing to earn this much torment in the afterlife.

A shadow fell over him. He pried his eyes open and blinked until eventually they focused on the face bending over him: a bearded face, with blond hair and flecked gray eyes. A Gaul! Lin flinched and tried to flail back, but a hand on his chest kept him still.

“Easy. Lie still.”

That voice… he remembered it from the night before, death leaning over him with golden wings on his cap. Not wings, he saw now, but long yellowish hair bound up in a thick knot atop his head. Not a Gaul ― a Suebi. He was looking at a Suebi warrior.

“Great Mother,” he whispered.

The Suebi leaned back on his haunches and idly scratched his beard. “Well. You’re not dead. I was waiting to sundown before I left you here.”

He thrust something at Lin that turned out to be a water skin. Lin drained it gratefully, despite the awful leathery taste, and was out of breath by the time he handed it back.

“Thank you,” he managed. “On both counts.”

“Sometimes men sleep after head wounds and never wake. If you’re not dead by now, you’ll probably live.”

Lin wondered if he might still be dreaming. He’d heard of Suebi warriors but never actually seen one ― other Germans, yes, and Gauls, Celts, even a few Britons, but no Suebi. This one looked as if he’d stepped right out of some painting of a battle story. He was naked from the waist up, his bare skin smeared with blood and dirt and the remnants of what looked like paint. He wore leather trousers and leg wraps over thick-soled boots, and from his belts hung two daggers and a small ax. Around his neck and upper arms he wore torcs of finely wrought silver. His beard was full but well groomed, and his hair was mussed but still bound into what was unmistakably a Suebian knot. No other northern people wore their hair in that peculiar style ― and it was said that only those Suebi who had proven themselves in battle were allowed to wear their hair in a warrior’s knot.

Battle! Lin gasped and tried again to sit up. This time he managed to prop himself up enough to see that he was lying beneath a tree in a little wooded copse. The sun glared down between the branches, and his pounding head and blurred vision prevented him from seeing much beyond.

“My slave ― where is he? Have you seen him?”

“The boy with dark hair? I put him with the others.”

Cold fingers plucked at Lin’s belly. “The others? He’s...?”

“Were you fond of him? We can bury him, then. He’s small, it won’t take long.”

Lin put one hand over his mouth. Nausea washed over him, and he began to tremble. His head ached in great brilliant pulses, and he closed his eyes until the wave passed.

“Can you stand?” said the Suebi. “If you’re not going to die, we should leave. Chatti scouts are near the river. We’ll go into the wald.”

Lin’s eyes snapped open. “The what? The where? Who are you? What’s the meaning of this? Why did you kill Sulla and my driver?”

The Suebi sighed. “You were quieter before.” He brushed a bit of dirt from his trousers and rose lazily to his feet. Lin’s eyes went wide. His vision must still be wobbly, or else he was delirious: this was the tallest human being he had ever seen. Were the Suebi a race of giants?

“I didn’t kill your people. You chose a bad place to camp. We were tracking the Chatti and your fire led us to them. They would have killed you too if I had not dragged you away.”

“Why did you?”

“For that.” He pointed at the signet ring on Lin’s right forefinger. “You are Roman. My people want no quarrel with Rome. You were stupid to travel so close to Chatti land. They will kill any Roman they see.”

“Why?”

“Why? _Why?_ Do you know nothing of what your armies do? Do you know nothing of Drusus?”

The name was familiar, but in his muddled state Lin could not make the connection, and only shrugged in confusion. The Suebi shook his head in disgust and snapped, “We should go. See if you can walk.”

He stooped and put out a hand. After a moment Lin took it, and together they hauled him to his feet. The world tilted and spun, but eventually it stilled enough that Lin found he could remain upright, though for how long he could not say. Gingerly he put a hand to his throbbing head ― it came away sticky with thick, dark blood. He swayed on his feet, but the Suebi kept him from falling. When Lin remained vertical without collapsing, he nodded and turned to walk away.

“Wait. Wait! Who _are_ you?”

“You can call me Rand.”

“Is that your name?”

“It is what you can call me.”

Lin sighed. “Fine. I’m Lin.”

“Is that your name?”

Despite lingering queasiness and the dreadful ache in his head, anger flared hot in Lin and he jerked his chin to scowl at this arrogant smirking savage.

“My name is Caius Cornelius Lacertus of the gens Cornelii, and I demand to know why a Roman citizen was assaulted by barbarians without any provocation. My―”

The Suebi took a dangerous step forward. His glare cut Lin’s words off at the root.

“Demand what you like, but remember that you are not in Rome. You give no orders here. This is my country. If not for me, you would be lying dead in the dirt beside your slave. Speak to me like that again and you still may. Now close your mouth and follow me.”

He turned and stalked away, one hand twitching on the hilt of his dagger.

Lin swallowed and ran a hand through his hair. He looked down at the ground, at the pool of blood congealing in the grass where he had lain. He could still taste its traces in his mouth, mingled with sour vomit and warm leathery water. Rand left the little copse without another word, disappearing into the sunlight beyond the trees. Lin rubbed his mouth, glancing at the signet ring on his finger, then squared his shoulders and followed.


	2. Chapter 2

Lin stepped into the clearing and his jaw dropped. Only the sheer magnitude of his dazed horror kept him from sinking to the ground.

Bodies lay everywhere: mangled, blood-splattered, pale skin already mottling in the cold. Dozens of men lay dead, scores of them, their stiff corpses hacked and mutilated with unspeakable wounds. The ground was awash with gore, dotted here and there with dropped weapons, severed limbs, and glistening bits of entrails. Lin had never seen a dead body outside of a funeral, much less a vista of butchery like this. In the center of the carnage was his wagon, spiked all over with arrows like a great wooden hedgehog. Nearby stood Rand, bent over a still form lying in the shade of one wheel.

He had moved Sulla away from the others and laid the boy out on his back, hands crossed atop his belly. From the center of his scrawny chest protruded a single arrow. Rand grasped it and wrenched it free with a horrible sound, and tossed it away as Lin approached. He wiped his hand on one leather-clad thigh, leaving a fresh red smear.

Lin knelt beside Sulla’s body. He hadn’t suffered, at least ― no other wounds were visible besides the single puncture to the heart. If not for his awful gray color, he might have been sleeping. Lin remembered the look of terror on his face as he clung to his master, crouched together behind the wagon. _I’m sorry,_ he thought.

“You weep for a slave?”

“He was just a child,” Lin snapped. “He didn’t deserve to die like this.”

“Oh.”

“Oh what?”

Rand shrugged. “He was your boy. I know Romans are fond of boys.”

“It wasn’t like that. He wasn’t my catamite, he was my servant.” Scowling, Lin got to his feet and brushed the dirt from his knees. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

He turned to the remains of the campfire and began searching through the wreckage, his sandals crunching in the scattered ashes. If the gods were merciful… yes, there it was. Lin dusted off his satchel and slung it across his shoulder; then, ignoring Rand’s stare, he climbed aboard the wagon and looked beneath the driver’s seat for a tool kit. He pulled out a shovel and tossed it to the ground, then climbed down and leaned against the carriage until the world stopped spinning. When he opened his eyes, Rand had picked up the shovel.

“I’ll dig,” he said, and walked away.

They made a shallow grave beneath the tree where Lin awoke, and Rand carried Sulla over and placed him in it. Lin searched through his satchel until he found his purse, and withdrew a single silver coin. He knelt beside the grave and slipped the coin into Sulla’s mouth.

“What is that?” asked Rand.

“A coin for Charon. The ferryman to the underworld.”

“Your gods make you pay them for safe passage?”

Lin glared up at him. “You wouldn’t understand my gods.”

“It seems I don’t understand anything,” Rand said. “And yet somehow I saved your life.”

Lin ignored him, instead clearing his mind to focus on the task at hand. He placed his hands on his knees, palms up, and beneath his breath recited the prayer for the dead, keeping his words silent so Rand could not hear. At the end he added aloud, “This is Sulla, the slave of Caius Cornelius Lacertus. He was a good and faithful servant. Take care of him.” Then he stood and began pitching the dark earth back into the grave.

After two shovelfuls the world turned gray and his knees buckled. He fell against something tall and hard, and from far away he heard irritated muttering in a language he did not know. Rand lowered him to the ground and snatched the shovel from his hand.

“Sit down.”

He filled in the grave while Lin closed his eyes until the dreadful pounding in his head lessened a fraction. He needed willow and feverfew, but had none in his satchel and he doubted there was much of anything left in his luggage. Eventually he felt strong enough to stand again, and approached as Rand tamped down the last of the dirt.

“We should go,” Rand said. “My men are half a day from here by now.”

“They left you alone?”

“I told them to. Too many of us would attract attention.”

He tossed the shovel aside and walked back toward the wagon. Lin took a last look at the grave, then followed. They picked their way through the bodies, Lin trying to avoid the puddles of gore while Rand stomped through them without batting an eye.

“What about these men? Will you bury them?”

“These are all Chatti. My men took our dead with them.”

“Well then what do we do with them?”

“We leave them.”

“Leave them?! But that’s barbari―” Rand turned, and he swallowed. “I mean, it seems wrong, is all.”

“You can stay and dig graves for them. I’m leaving.”

As Lin had feared, the carriage and all its contents had been thoroughly ransacked. Everything edible was gone, as were his two clothing trunks and the crate of Frisian goods he was taking home. His box of writing supplies was smashed, as was his incense box and toiletries case. He scavenged a leather cloak, a jar of salted olives, and a pair of indoor shoes ― that was all. Again Lin thanked the gods that they had spared him his satchel, where he kept his most personal items.

“Take only what you can carry,” Rand said.

“I have little choice in the matter.” Lin sat on the ground and began unlacing his sandals.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m putting these on under my sandals. I’m not used to walking and I don’t have any boots. I’d rather keep all my toes if you don’t mind.”

“Ah. Smart.”

“I’m so glad you approve.”

With his sandals laced up over the slippers, his feet felt slightly more protected. His tunic, good soft wool with linen lining, fell just below the knee, and the leather cloak reached to mid-shin; he ought to be warm enough, as long as the sunlight lasted. He fastened the cloak by its agate brooch and tucked his satchel safely out of sight, then looked at Rand and nodded. Without further comment Rand turned to walk back toward the trees.

“Wait,” Lin called. “The road is this way.”

“We’re not going by the road.”

“But if there’s a town―”

“There’s not. We’re going east.”

“East? We can’t go east. Mogontiacum is to the south.”

“So are the Chatti. If you want to walk with them, go ahead.”

He pushed aside a branch and headed into the woods. Lin had no choice but to follow.

The sun was high and bright, but the air turned colder as they moved from meadow to forest. Here all was shade and quiet, and traces of mist still clung to the heavy air. The thin alders and hazel in the copse where Lin awoke gave way to elm, beech, and oak; the gnarled branches budded with new spring growth, but many were still bare, and their feet crunched through a carpet of brown leaves on the forest floor. Rand made no effort to conceal his footsteps, while Lin glanced around nervously at every shadow.

“Will they come back?”

“I doubt it. We killed most of them. They’ll need stronger numbers before they return.”

“Then why can’t we stay on the road?”

“I don’t like roads.”

“Are you joking?”

“It’s faster this way. My men have half a day on us. I could catch up by nightfall, but you can’t.”

Fear shot through Lin, throbbing in time with the pain in his head. “Am I your prisoner?”

“Are you bound and gagged?”

“Then why are you taking me to your people instead of mine? I have to get―”

“You need boots and medicine. It will take days to reach a Roman place, maybe weeks. It would do me no good to bring your people a corpse.”

“So I am a hostage. You only saved my life because you expect to be rewarded for it.”

“Why, do you know someone who would pay?”

Lin’s fists clenched, but anger only made his head ache more fiercely, so he bit off his reply and drew his cloak tighter against the chill. Rand showed no signs of discomfort despite being half naked; his kind were built for it, Lin supposed, as hard and cold as they were rough and savage. He certainly looked like he had ice water in his veins instead of blood.

They walked without speaking for a long time ― perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, Lin was too unwell to guess. Rand led the way and he tried his best to keep up, but it became increasingly difficult to match the stride of those long legs. His head pained him abominably; his mouth was parched and tasted dreadful, and his feet ached already. But his emotions had gone strangely numb ― perhaps it was an after-effect of his wound, or perhaps too much had happened for his mind to cope with while his body was still so weak. He had not eaten since last night’s fateful dinner, and though his hands shook from hunger, his stomach churned with nausea. He could think of nothing beyond soothing his head, washing himself clean of blood and filth, and sleeping in a soft warm bed. He could almost imagine it, if he closed his eyes: a soft mattress with clean linen sheets, warm fur blankets, and pillows smelling of lavender and chamomile, cool against his cheek. Yes, he could feel it if he tried, pale sheets and white pillows, softness and warmth cradling him, all around him...

Something sharp struck his face and his eyes snapped open. For a moment he saw nothing but gray, but then the haze cleared and he focused on Rand’s face. Lin looked around ― he lay propped against a rock beside a little stream, from which Rand had just splashed him with a handful of frigid water.

“What―?”

Rand sat back on his haunches, drying his hand on his trousers. “You fainted.” 

“Oh.” Carefully Lin sat up, cradling his head in his hands until he felt a little more steady. When he opened his eyes again Rand was squatting beside the stream, refilling the water skin in the swift current. He handed it to Lin, who drained it gratefully, then filled it again and hung it back on his belts.

“Thank you,” Lin said.

“Here.” Rand reached into the purse at his hip and pulled out a small pouch tied with string. He untied it and held it out, cupped in his palm: it was filled with a fine pale-brown powder.

“What’s that?”

Rand said a word Lin did not know, and when that got no response he added, “The tree? For pains and fever?”

“Oh! Willow!”

Rand poured a bit into Lin’s palm, then produced a small gourd bottle and pulled out the wax stopper with his teeth. “Drink it with this.”

“What is it?”

“Drink it.”

Lin sniffed the bottle: it wasn’t beer, thank all the gods. It smelled like mead, but not any sugary Roman honey wine ― this was northern mead, acrid and pungent. He dumped the powdered willow bark onto his tongue, grimaced, and washed it down with a large swig. The mead trailed fire down his throat and bloomed warm in his chest, but he no longer tasted the willow. Or anything else, for that matter.

“It helps,” Rand said. “Faster than water.”

Lin tried to say ‘thank you’ again, but instead he made a croaking noise and coughed. 

Rand put the bottle away and stood, looking up at the sunlight shining between the trees. “Few more hours until sunset. We should go on, if you can.”  
“I can,” Lin said. “Just let me splash my face with water.”

He turned to lean over the stream, and when he saw his reflection in the water his eyes went wide. A gash as long as his forefinger split the flesh above his left eyebrow, curving down nearly to his ear. Dried blood streaked his face, matting his hair and staining the neck of his tunic.

“Great Mother,” he muttered.

“Best not to wash it yet,” said Rand.

He was right, Lin knew; the dried blood would protect the wound until he could cleanse it properly. It should have been sutured; it would leave a scar, but he could not think about that now. So instead he splashed his cheeks and neck with the frigid water, washing off most of the rusty streaks and sharpening his dulled wits. That plus the mead in his belly braced him enough to haul himself to his feet.

“I can keep going. I can, really.”

“You’re tougher than you look,” Rand said.

Lin was uncertain whether to thank him for that. Before he could make up his mind, Rand had already walked away.

* * *

They stopped for the night beneath a rocky outcropping, a natural shelter shielded by an ancient fallen tree. Lin was surprised when Rand began gathering kindling, but he said the Chatti were long gone by now, and they were well out of sight anyway. Soon a small fire crackled within a ring of stones, and he told Lin to rest while he scouted around. Lin pulled his cloak hood over his head in lieu of a pillow and hesitantly lay down, peering into the darkness. Every noise made him flinch and listen for Rand’s returning steps. He closed his eyes, but he knew he would never be able to rest in this wilderness, where bears and wolves and gods knew what could be waiting just beyond the firelight.

He awoke to a loud thump beside the fire. He opened his eyes and looked into the face of a very large and very dead badger. He sprang up with an oath to see Rand crouched atop the fallen tree, grinning.

“Hungry?”

Lin scooted backward away from the dead creature, willing his racing heart to slow. Rand chuckled and hopped to the ground, unsheathing one of his daggers. He grabbed the badger and began gutting it without warning, quickly and efficiently, tossing the inedible bits into the fire. Lin turned away, trying not to let his disgust show on his face; judging by the smirk beneath Rand’s beard, he did not succeed. To restore his dignity he looked around for two sticks straight enough to serve as cooking prongs. He sat down cross-legged before the fire and began sharpening them with the small knife he kept in his satchel. His hands shook so badly that he nearly cut himself several times, but by the time Rand had two hunks of meat ready for the fire, Lin had two spits prepared for them.

As Rand jammed his badger steak onto a stick with grimy, blood-covered hands, Lin said: “Wait.” From his satchel he withdrew a small silver box.

“Salt and pepper. Well, mostly dried juniper berries, but there’s some pepper mixed in it.”

“What’s pepper?”

Lin held out the spice cellar and Rand leaned over to sniff it. He flinched and coughed, turning his head to sneeze, and Lin shook his head and grinned.

They ate beside the fire, washing down their meal with gulps from the water skin. The thought of eating freshly-killed badger made Lin queasy until he caught the first whiff of roasting meat, and then his stomach abruptly lurched back into life and he realized he was ravenous. The salt made it bearable, at least, and he was so hungry he barely tasted it anyway. Rand refused the pepper but happily accepted some salt, and then set upon his dinner as if badger were his favorite meal.

Once Lin’s hunger subsided, the dark forest looming over them with its odd mixture of noise and silence began to make him uneasy again. Eventually the quiet grew too deafening, and he could no longer fight the urge to fill it with his voice.

“Your Latin is very good. Where did you learn it?”

“Here and there. Traders. Slaves.”

“You have Roman slaves?”

“You have Germanian slaves?”

Lin was silent. And then: “Languages are a hobby of mine. I have a kind of knack for them, I have ever since I was a boy. I don’t even need to study, I can just talk to people. I know Greek, Aramaic, Frisian, Cimbri, Gaulish, a little Persian...” Rand stared at him, and he trailed off with a shrug. “It’s why I became a merchant. I’m good with people.”

Rand took a swig of water and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. “Not the Chatti, it seems.”

Lin looked down at the meaty residue clinging to his roasting stick, and nausea rose in him again. He tossed the stick into the fire and drew his knees to his chest, crossing his arms atop them. He had nearly been able to drive away the images of what he left behind in that field, but now they came rushing upon him all at once and he closed his eyes to try to force them back.

“I’m sorry about your boy.”

Lin opened his eyes and Rand was watching him. He had tossed his stick into the fire and was cleaning off his fingers by licking them one by one.

“His name was Sulla,” Lin said.

“Roman names are so strange. Sulla, Lin.”

“Lin isn’t a Roman name. It’s short for Linguax, my agnomen― that is, a nickname I was given as a child. It means―”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“My people don’t share their names with strangers.”

“So Rand isn’t your name.”

Rand cleared his throat and twisted to spit into the darkness. “You had better get some rest.” He fished out the mead bottle from his purse and tossed it Lin’s way. “Finish it. It will help you sleep.”

"What about you?"

“I will keep watch. I can sleep when we reach my men.”

Lin started to protest, but with a belly full of food and the pain in his head blunted by willow bark, the mention of rest brought his exhaustion back to the fore. The previous day and night weighed heavily on him, dragging him down with weariness and pain, and mead-laced sleep sounded more and more agreeable. 

“Well... alright.”

He downed the rest of the mead, three or four good swallows, and shuddered as each hit his belly. Carefully he curled up once more beside the fire, cushioning his head on a fold of his cloak, and closed his eyes. The mead warmed his insides and the fire warmed his outsides, and a pleasantly fuzzy feeling began to wash over him. The ache in his head lessened slightly, and he realized he no longer felt afraid to sleep. An owl hooted somewhere and he tensed, but then he heard Rand shift and toss a fresh branch on the fire, and his sigh was the last thing Lin heard before he drifted off.


	3. Chapter 3

When Lin awoke, he was alone. He sat up, brushing leaves from his cloak, and looked around in alarm ― the golden glow filtering through the canopy told him it was morning, but not much light made it to the forest floor, where everything was obscured by a thick silver mist. The fire had been smothered and its ashes so well hidden that barely any trace remained; gone too were the remnants of last night’s dinner, the empty mead bottle, and that bottle’s owner.

“Rand?”

He strained to listen but heard nothing: no footsteps, no birds, not even creaking trees. The fog absorbed everything, even his voice.

“Rand?”

Something bounced off his shoulder and he whirled ― Rand stood atop the outcropping, tossing an acorn from one hand to the other.

“I found the men. Come.”

“The―?” But he had already gone, and Lin hurried to fetch his satchel and follow.

Rand moved through the forest with ease, and Lin did his best to keep up ― the last thing he wanted was to be left alone in this eerie place. He could hardly see more than a pace or two ahead; beyond that the fog made everything seem distant and menacing, as if they were walking through a dream. Part of him wondered if he might still be asleep, but the headache that returned as soon as he was vertical assured him otherwise. He rubbed his face, feeling stubble on his cheeks, and tried to clear his head while his eyes darted about at every shadow. Meanwhile Rand strolled along at an energetic pace, almost chipper despite having presumably been awake all night.

“I thought you were going to sleep all day,” he remarked.

“All day? The sun’s barely up!”

“It’s mid-morning, you just can’t tell from here. Fog means it will be warm today.”

Lin clutched his cloak about his shoulders and muttered, “Well, that’s good.”

Rand glanced at him. “It’s not very far. There’s a river to the south, they camped there. I found them when I was scouting. Nearly got an arrow through my eye for my trouble. I was going to let you sleep longer, but they want to meet you.”

“…They do?”

Lin ran a hand through his disheveled hair. Gods only knew what he looked like, unkempt and dirty in days-old clothes, covered in bruises and blood. Immediately he chided himself: why should he care what he looked like to a pack of savage tribesmen? The instincts of the merchant, he supposed. Always present yourself at your best. The thought almost made him laugh ― small chance he could be further from his best than he was right now.

As he stumbled along at Rand’s side, he had to admit his condition was not quite so precarious as the day before. His head still pained him, but it was more of a constant low-level ache rather than all-consuming, pounding agony as if his brain were trying to burst like Minerva through his skull. His nausea had eased, and what remained was likely due more to half-cooked badger than any lingering injury. He was a walking mass of soreness, bruises, chafing, and filth, but he could turn his head now without growing faint, and his vision had mostly cleared. At least, he thought it had. It was hard to tell in this fog.

Rand’s definition of “not very far” differed somewhat from Lin’s, but after a while the forest began to thin out a little and the sound of rushing water cut through the mist. Rand led him up some rocky terrain covered by a thick carpet of ferns, but halfway there he put a hand on Lin’s chest and whistled once, a sharp trill like the warble of a songbird. A moment later the whistle was answered, and Rand guided him through the ferns and onto a mossy ridge. Lin looked up and realized they were no longer alone.

It was a camp, but not like any camp Lin had ever seen. There were no tents, no wagons, no pack animals, no palisade; no trees had been hewn down to build sheds, no underbrush burned to clear space. And yet dozens of men occupied the ridge, perhaps as many as a hundred, lounging in various states of repose. Some napped on the mossy ground in patches of filtered sunlight; some sat in groups on stones or fallen trees, huddled over unseen games; some kept busy sharpening weapons or working on some other menial task. In a central clearing a quartered roebuck and a half dozen smaller animals hung on spits over a shallow trench filled with coals. From the looks of things, no one was much concerned about an ambush.

“We have scouts,” Rand said, as if reading his thought. “And lookouts in the trees. I told you, the Chatti won’t come here. We’re better in the wald than they are.”  
Heads turned in their direction as the men looked up to see Rand leading Lin toward them. They began to stand and stare, and Lin fought back a sudden surge of fear. The last time he had seen these men they were screaming with blood lust and slaughtering everything that moved. His nausea threatened to return, and he exhaled to steady himself. He could feel Rand watching him, and he squared his shoulders and willed himself to keep walking.

They were clearly Rand’s people. All were impressive specimens: broad-shouldered, powerfully built, and as tall or taller than himself, though none were quite as tall as Rand. All had long hair in shades of yellow and auburn bound up in Suebian knots, and most had beards, or at least mustaches. They all wore leather trousers with leg wraps and boots, and most wore nothing else, though a few had cloaks or linen shirts. Many wore torcs like Rand’s around their necks and arms, and some had traces of paint on their chests and backs. Lin found these variations oddly fascinating, but he wisely avoided staring too long at any one man.

Rand called out something that must have been a greeting, for several voices returned it. One of the group, a great bear of a man with a beard so long it was braided at the ends, stared at Lin to the point of awkwardness and then barked something at Rand and grinned.

“He says you’re taller than he thought.”

Lin quirked an eyebrow at that, but he also stood up a little straighter. The others noticed this and laughed ― a good-natured laugh, not overly mocking, but still Lin felt his face grow hot. This caused his headache to throb anew, and he winced and put a hand to the wound.

“We can see to that now,” Rand said. “But first you should eat and drink. You can bathe too if you like, and sleep some more. We will stay here today.”

At the mention of bathing, Lin looked down the slope to the source of the running water: a stream flowing swiftly along a ravine bottom, gushing with fresh runoff from the hills. How he would love to wash with that clear, clean water, if only it wasn’t nearly as frigid as the snow it had so recently been. He comforted himself with thoughts of hot baths, saunas, warm massage tables... by all the gods, he would trade the gold of Croesus for a good rubdown with hot olive oil.

Rand called out to someone in a rapid string of words, and led Link to a group of stones ringed around a fire pit. The fire was dead, but bottles and cups lay strewn around the ashes along with an assortment of clean-picked bones. Either these men were not as conscientious in cleaning up as Rand, or more meals were yet to be had around this hearth. Rand sat him down on a stone and handed him a water flask ― a gourd bottle this time, not a leather bag. Lin nodded his thanks and drank his fill.

“How is your head?” Rand asked.

“Better. I’m not as dizzy.”

“I have more― what was the word? Willa?”

“Willow.”

“But you should eat first.” A passing man handed him a wooden bowl, which he held out to Lin. “Here.”

Lin peered into the bowl: a mixture of nuts, seeds, and dried berries. “How do I thank him?”

Rand spoke a short word. Lin repeated it to the man, who nodded once before departing. Lin opened a fresh ledger in his mind and stored the word for later use, the first in this particular collection. He only hoped the Chatti hadn’t knocked loose his ability to learn new tongues.

He ate a few handfuls of the mix, which was quite tasty in addition to settling his nervous stomach. He could feel dozens of Suebi eyes on him, and not all with mere curiosity; some watched him with suspicion, others with disdain, and a few with open contempt. Lin tried to ignore their stares, but eventually he could no longer keep silent and leaned forward to whisper at Rand.

“I thought your people had no quarrel with Rome?”

Rand scooped up a handful of nuts and stuffed them in his mouth. “Not all these men are from my clan. Some are kin with the Cherusci.”

“And the Cherusci dislike Rome?”

“Do you really know so little of what your people do out here? You go to foreign lands without knowing if they are friends or enemies?”

“I’m just a merchant,” Lin said. “A merchant is friends with everyone.”

“Everyone who has something he wants.”

Lin did not answer. He ate a few more nuts, then said, “I think I’ll go wash. Is that alright?”

He stood and took off his cloak, and left the fire ring to carefully pick his way down the slope to the stream. The fog had long since burned off, and the misty morning had become a warm spring afternoon; at the ravine bottom there were fewer trees to block the sunlight, and the sight of a bright, cloudless blue sky raised Lin’s spirits a little. Outside this gloomy pagan forest, the world went on. He would rejoin it soon enough.

The stream was swift but shallow, punctuated by boulders and smooth rocks. Lin crept out a few paces and sat down on a large stone to take off his sandals in the sunlight. His fingers shook so much he could barely untie the knots, and when he pulled the laces free they left marks etched in dirt on his ankles. He peeled away the slippers beneath and grimaced ― his feet were covered in blisters, his toes swollen and streaked with blood. He had walked more in the past two days than he had in all his life. He lowered his feet into the current, first swearing at the sting and then sighing as the frigid water numbed his skin. It was heavenly.

After a moment he reached up to untie his tunic at the shoulders, letting the halves fall to his waist. His right shoulder was sore from falling on it when he was hit; but the joint was unharmed, merely stiff, and the skin was dotted with abrasions. He was lucky he hadn’t snapped his collarbone. He cupped his hand in the water and brought it to his shoulder, wincing as it ran down his back and belly. Instantly he started to shiver, but his desire to get clean outweighed his need to stay warm. Bit by bit he scrubbed himself from neck to waist, taking inventory of every scratch, welt, and bruise. By the time he was finished the sunlight had warmed him a little, and he leaned over to dip his head in the water and rinse his hair. Until he could shave and take a proper bath, that was the best he could do.

He turned to check on his sandals, airing out on the rocks behind him, and flinched when he saw Rand standing on the shore.

“Let me see your feet.”

“What?”

“Your feet,” Rand snapped.

Lin pulled his legs from the water and stretched them out on the rocks. The cold had turned his toes from angry red to bloodless white, but the blisters and welts were still clearly visible. Rand nodded.

“Put these on when we walk. Take them off when we stop.”

He tossed something onto the rocks and walked away. It was a pair of boots, soft brown leather with thick-padded soles, probably stuffed with fur or wool. Lin had sold boots like these to the Frisians. He looked up to say 'thank you', but Rand was gone.

Lin stood and stripped off his tunic. Naked in the sunlight, he shook out the filthy garment as best he could ― it was damp with sweat and stained with dirt, blood, and vomit, but he had nothing else to wear. If the water weren’t so cold he would have rinsed it out, but the idea of sitting around in a wet tunic was even less appealing than wearing a dirty one, and so back on it went, followed by the boots. After two days in those sandals, it was like putting on silk slippers.

He had a tougher time getting back up the slope than down it, but he made it without falling on his rear end in front of a hundred barbarians. Most seemed to have gone on about their business by now, though a few glanced his way as he walked back to where Rand sat. Lin spread his cloak out on a soft bit of ground and sat down, removing the boots to let his feet dry in a patch of afternoon light. Rand watched him, munching on a piece of fruit.

“Thank you for these,” Lin said. “Are they yours?”

“They were Bern’s.”

“Where is he? Can I thank him?”

“He’s dead.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Why? He was a warrior. He died in battle.”

Lin shook his head. “This is all strange to me. It’s like I’m in another world. I feel… I don’t know what I feel. I just want to go home.”

“You mean back to Rome?”

“Well, yes. I am a Roman.”

“I thought you were a merchant?” Rand bit into his fruit and grinned as he wiped the juice from his beard. He plucked another from a bowl nearby and tossed it Lin’s way. “Winter pears. Too long on the tree, but still good.”

The pear was small and golden, more round than oblong, and smelled sweet even in his hand. Lin could not recall the last time he had eaten fresh fruit; nearly all his fruit consumption came in the form of preserves and baked goods. He fetched his eating knife from his satchel and sliced off a wedge to carefully taste it. Rand shook his head as he took another messy bite.

“So what is in Rome that you hurry back to? Your wife and children?”

“Uh, no. I have neither.”

“A lover, then? Some girl waiting for you? Some boy? No, that’s right, you don’t like boys.”

“Yes I d― I mean―” Lin scowled. “I said I don’t like _children_. Look, I just want to go home, is that so hard for you to understand? I don’t belong here. I have a business to run. If I don’t get to Rome by the Mercuralia and the merchant college thinks I’m dead, they’ll cancel all my contracts and the state will seize my assets. I have to go back before I lose every denarius I made this winter.”

“And that is home to you?”

“Don’t look at me like your people don’t care about wealth. Germans hoard treasure like no one I’ve ever seen. Or do you wear those silver bracelets just to make yourself look pretty?”

“I wear them to show how many men I’ve killed.”

A chunk of pear slid down Lin’s throat.

But Rand only shrugged. “You have no family. You have no lovers. You’re not a warrior. You’re not a priest. You fight for nothing, you love nothing. What else is home?”  
Anger flared in Lin’s belly. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know that when you were hurt, you called no names.”

“What?”

“Men with head wounds dream. They talk to family, friends, enemies. They talk to gods and ghosts. You talked to no one.”

“I… I don’t remember that.”

Truth be told, he could not recall much of anything from the night he was hurt: his last memory was hiding with Sulla and praying for help, and then nothing until he awoke beneath the tree the next day. Even the hours after that were hazy, ebbing in and out, with nothing fully clear until he awoke to Rand splashing his face with cold water beside the little forest stream. Of his time at the verge of death, he remembered nothing.

“You said only one thing, over and over. ‘Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone.’”

Lin looked down at the pear in his hand. He tossed the core into the ferns and wiped his palm on his tunic. “I think I’ll try to sleep a little.”

“Here.” Rand pulled the pouch of willow bark from his belts and tossed it onto the cloak. “Use it all. I can get more.”

Lin swallowed every grain of the gritty powder, draining the water flask in a vain effort to wash the bitter taste from his tongue. When the gourd was empty he stretched out on his back and laced his hands behind his head, blinking up into the leafy canopy. The sunlight warmed his legs and feet in filtered patches, while forest air sneaked in soft drafts beneath his tunic to cool his armpits and thighs. He closed his eyes, listening to the stream rushing in the ravine and the sounds of the forest around them. The moment he felt sleep approaching, he beckoned it as quickly as it would come.

* * *

He opened his eyes to darkness. He jerked and sat up with a start, but eased when he recognized the fire roaring in the pit and the sounds of men eating and drinking. The Suebi sat around the stone circle in a congenial mass, laughing as they devoured their roebuck and game. Lin glanced around but did not see Rand among them. Beyond the firelight the darkness was impenetrable, and the night air was chilly and damp. Shivering, Lin leaned forward to reach for the leather boots.

“Don’t.”

Rand stood behind him, bearing an armload of something brown and white.

“My feet are cold,” Lin said.

Rand dropped his cargo onto the cloak, where it landed in a pile of linen and leather: a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of trousers. Lin looked up at him and raised an eyebrow.  
“You want me to wear this?”

“It will be better if you look like one of us. And you’ll be warmer. And―” he pointed at Lin’s tunic― “that thing smells.”

“Wh―?!” Scowling, Lin huffed and snatched up the shirt. It was made of unbleached linen, almost as good quality as Celtic fabric; the stitching was excellent, and the neck had been embroidered with scarlet thread in a pattern of knots and whorls. He pulled off his filthy tunic and sniffed it, then recoiled and dropped it. The shirt slipped easily over his head and fell to mid-thigh when he stood. It was a bit snug through the shoulders, but otherwise it fit him fairly well; though it was thinner than his wool tunic, the sleeves covered his arms to the wrists and the fabric was soft and comfortable.

The trousers, however, were another matter. Lin had never worn breeches a day in his life, not even drawers in the winter. The very idea unsettled him. How could they be comfortable? Wouldn’t they chafe? But he couldn’t go around in nothing but a shirt, and the leather did look rather warm. He stepped into the trousers one leg at a time and awkwardly hiked them up. The waist gaped loose around his hips until Rand showed him how to fasten the embroidered cord that served as a belt. They were tight as a second skin, but with a strange kind of give that accommodated him when he moved. It was the most peculiar sensation: he could feel the soft leather all around his legs and thighs, snug on his hips, cupping his backside and… other things. It felt rather obscene, to be honest. At least the shirt covered him enough for decency.

“What about this?” he asked, scratching at his cropped black hair.

Rand shrugged. “Maybe you’re my slave.”

Lin spluttered, indignant, but Rand pointed at a nearby log and said, “Sit down there. I’ll tend your wound.”

They took a seat on the fallen tree, close enough to the fire for warmth and light but separated from the rowdy feast. A small satchel was propped against the log, next to a bowl in which a small cloth floated in steaming water. Rand fetched the cloth and reached for Lin’s head, but Lin shrank back.

“Has that been boiled?”

Rand arched an eyebrow. “It’s safe. Just wait.”

He closed his eyes and murmured something, then opened them and without warning pressed the cloth to Lin’s temple. Lin nearly fell from the log ― the bowl held not water, but hot vinegar. Rand grasped the back of Lin’s neck to hold him still and squeezed the vicious potion into the wound. Lin bit his lip to keep from crying out, with little success; luckily Rand’s men were so focused on their supper that they hardly noticed him anymore, and by that point he no longer cared if they did. His nostrils burned from the acrid stench while his stinging eyes filled with tears. At last Rand removed his torture device and held it up, the white cloth now stained dark.

“See? All clean.”

“You’re a monster.”

Rand grinned beneath his beard. “Don’t you use vinegar on wounds?”

“That’s not vinegar, that’s hell-water from the river Styx.”

“It’s vinegar boiled with salt and garlic and… I don’t know the Roman names. Roots and plants.”

Lin daubed at his brimming eyes with his shirt cuff. “And it’s safe?”

“I made it myself. My men use it after battle.”

“…You’re a healer.”

“No one heals but the gods,” Rand said. “But I know how to use what they give.”

He rinsed off his hands in the hellish brew before leaving the soiled cloth to soak, then opened the satchel to peruse its contents. His medical kit, Lin assumed.

“What did you say just then, before you started?”

“I asked Ingwas to guide my hands.”

“Inkwiss?”

“Ingwas ― Frarja, the _waldfreyr_ , the forest lord. We call him the Shining One.”

“I’ve never heard of that god. Is he like Wothan?”

“Oh, no. We call on Wothan for strength. We call on Ingwas for life.”

“What else does he do?”

Rand smiled to himself. “Many things.”

He took out a small bottle carved from what looked like bone, stoppered with wax. Plucking out the stopper, he poured a dollop of sticky orange goo into his palm.

“Salve?”

“From honey and… an orange flower, good for wounds.”

“I think we call that one calendula.”

“We call it _ingswela_. Ing’s gift.”

He daubed his fingertips in the salve and touched them carefully to Lin’s wound. Lin braced himself for the sting, but there was none: the salve was soft and cool, and Rand’s touch was as deft as it was gentle. The salve smelled faintly of flowers, a clean, soothing scent, and Lin felt himself relax. He sat still and let himself be tended to, watching while Rand bit his lip in concentration and peered at his work with those clear, round eyes. In the firelight they took on the most remarkable shade ― a sort of greenish-gray, both dark and light together, reflecting the golden sparks that rose from the fire into the night sky.

“There. Better?”

Softly Lin said, “Yes. Thank you.”

“I’ll clean it again tomorrow, but after that we should leave it. It will heal well. The salve will help with pain, and the willa― the willow.”

He leaned back then and looked around, sitting up to his full height to watch his men at their dinner. By this time many had switched from eating to drinking, and more than a few were already dozing by the stones or stretched out snoring in the ferns. Rand smiled.

“Are you hungry? I am. I doubt there’s any buck left, but I’ll see if I can find us a rabbit or two. That ought to suit you better than badger.”

“I should think so.”

“Here, give me your water flask and I’ll fill it with mead. That will warm you up for sure.” Glancing at Lin, he raised an eyebrow and added, “That is, if you think you can handle it.”  
Lin smirked up at him and reached for the gourd bottle, holding it out in the firelight.

“I’m tougher than I look,” he said.


End file.
